Confessions of a Kryptonian
by PrescitedEntity
Summary: Slash, crack-fic-y. Clark Kent is in love with Batman. Batman is, for all Superman can tell, asexual. Clark is still going to confess. Batman...is freakishly perceptive.


I've wanted to tell him for a long time now. I'm in love with Batman.

I'm not Diana. Not Selina. Not Andrea. Not Talia. Not even Barbara, who's love-smitten puppy-eyes are pretty impossible to not notice – I'm pretty sure Bruce is intentionally ignoring them.

I'm Superman, or Kal-El – that is, Clark Kent, and I'm in love with Batman. Which, really, should not happen, because a very male Kryptonian should not be in love with a very womanizing – both intentionally and not – angstball of a man.

There are a lot of things Batman – and I know he's really _Batman_, not Bruce Wayne – will accept from his fellow Justice League member, Superman. Respect, certainly – in fact, he demands it, justifiably, of anyone working with him, and anyone unfortunate enough not to respect him will quickly learn to respect him or be terrified of him. Joking, every now and then – though only a light prod; anything else gets met by a cold stare that somehow manages to narrow the eyeholes of his cowl. A pat on the back – that was something that he had to get accustomed to, and one of the proudest accomplishments in my tenure; he still gives me a glare for it, but at least it doesn't stop him talking to me for days any more. Trust – he doesn't always understand why someone would trust another, but he understands the value of having others' trust. Even friendship – begrudgingly, and probably something he'd never admit, but he does at least admit to having an awkward bond sort of like friendship with Superman. At least, I'd like to think he would...

But I'm not Superman. I'm Kal and Clark Kent, a human – okay, a Kryptonian – but not a mask. And I want something more than the almost friendship we have.

At least I'm in love with the right person, I suppose. Plenty of people have fallen for Bruce Wayne, the wealthy half-hearted playboy who can charm the pants – or more appropriately, dress – off of most anyone, but people who actually know him know that Bruce Wayne is the mask, and Batman is the wearer. This alone knocks out the vast majority of would-be suitors; I don't think they'd want to be married to a dark, brooding figure who cloaks himself in darkness – or skintight Kevlar, for that matter. Of those that remain, one broke his heart, one is messing with it, one refuses to be anything but cordial, one's possessed by her father, and one is too much like pedophilia. It's no wonder he's still alone, really, when you think of it that way.

I wish I could change that, but I'm pretty sure Batman is not homosexual. Or straight, either, nowadays, actually. He seems to exude a sort of asexuality befitting bacteria.

He's dark, cynical, suspicious, and in many ways, everything I'm not. Self-built to be a superhero, not born powerful. Compelled by lingering pain, not by general goodwill. I guess it is something like a yin and a yang, the two of us – and it's probably why I'm intrigued by him.

And it's why I'm currently walking through the Batcave – uninvited, as always, and tolerated, as only recently – on my way to have a what will probably be a very awkward conversation with an even worse outcome. I'm going to tell him what I feel, because otherwise, with our line of work, it could well come out at the most inopportune moment that will make "even worse" look like "peace on earth".

He doesn't even bother acknowledging my arrival, staring at something or another on the computer.

"Bruce..."

"..." He simply turns and looks at me, eyes not betraying a smidge of emotion. I almost back down – if not for having Kryptonian will, I probably would have, just as anyone else would have, standing where I am now, but instead, I confess unhaltingly. At the end of it, I'm rewarded by the same unchanged gaze, and I feel my heart sink.

"...Is that all?"

"Yes. That's all." In my eyes are unspoken questions – so now what? What do you think? What do you feel? _Do_ you feel?

"Clark," he states matter-of-factly, turning back to the monitor, "It took you too long."

"...What? You mean you knew?" I smother a flustered rush of blood to my face.

"It was obvious."

I want to punch him right now – the first time I've ever felt that way towards anyone who hadn't already thrown at least a few punches, kicks, lasers beams, or other dangerous projectiles at me, or is threatening the world with some type of catastrophe or another. Instead, however, I simply swallow and ask, "So...?"

"So what?"

I _really_ want to punch him right now, but again, and partially due to the presence of the Kryptonite I know he keeps in his belt, I hold it back. "So now what?"

He sighs and stands, turning towards me. "So now you leave while I deal with the psycho in Gotham again." When I don't budge, the eyeholes on his cowl narrow, and he sighs again, more loudly, walking up to me. "Fine. I'll consider it. Now go."

He'll consider it. To anyone else, or from anyone else, this would sound like rejection, but from Batman? From Batman, this was equivalent to an agreement to a date. I almost hug him, but seeing the Batman Glare ™ on his cowl reins it back into a smile. Satisfied that I would be suitably out of the way, he walks away, about to head out.

"Wait," I call, "How did you know?"

"Because," his voice echoes, "**I'm the goddamn Batman**."

* * *

No, I don't know what the heck this is. I bumped across a particularly badly characterized Bat/Supes fanfic and this sorta just... yeah, whatever. I'm bored. The ending wrote itself. Frank Millerisms, LOL. DCAU instead of DC comics because I felt like it? And OOC Supes because... because.


End file.
